It had the effect of lessening the hostility in South’s eyes.
Drake moved his chair towards him. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Ed Mostyn. You were the first on the scene. We know that because you took photographs that you posted on a Facebook page and on your Twitter account. Now unless you tell me exactly what I want to know, I’m going to assume you killed Ed Mostyn before taking photographs of his body for your personal gratification. Then I’m going to arrest you and you’ll be remanded in custody to a prison where human rights come a poor second to survival.’
South swallowed hard and grasped the mug with both hands.
‘I was cycling, it was very early in the morning. It’s something I do quite often. I just saw him there. There was a fork through his neck. I just took some photographs and buggered off.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘It was early, there was nobody else around.’
‘Did you hear anything?’
South blinked furiously. ‘No…’
‘Any traffic?’
‘It was early…’
‘What’s your connection with Mostyn?’
There was panic on South’s face. ‘I didn’t know him.’
‘Why did you kill him?’
South’s left knee began to twitch. ‘I didn’t kill him. You can’t say that.’
Drake glared at South. ‘I need you to remember very carefully everything about that morning. Every sound, every movement. Tell me exactly what you did after you left the beach. You might have seen the killer, heard him.’
‘I don’t know… It was early… I was just… riding my bike. I cycled up to the bridge. There was nobody there, no traffic, except…’
‘What?’
‘There was a sound of a scooter. You know that sort of pop-popping sound.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I remember now. There was a dog yelping, jumping around the place.’
‘You didn’t think to call the police?’
South didn’t reply.
*
The Incident Room was quiet and Drake slumped into the chair behind Winder’s desk, before staring at the board. He leant back slightly and hoped that the silence might be conducive to clear thinking. He couldn’t escape from the image of the old man stirring porridge and he shook off the recollection. Pressure of work had played on his mind, making his imagination work overtime.
Back to basics, Drake thought, trying to remember which politician had used the phrase. They had to get back to what they knew about Ed Mostyn and Jane Jones. There had to be a connection between both deaths and he had to find it. He wanted to ignore the foreboding pulling at his mind that more of the paedophile ring were going to die. And one of them might have killed Mostyn and Jane. But Fairburn?
He stared at the name ‘Jane Jones’. There was something immensely sad about her life, her family. She should have been protected; her father should have been there to look after her. Briefly he remembered his rebellious teenage years and those of his sister, but his father had been present. Resolving that he had to be a better father for his own daughters, he had to make finding Jane’s killer a priority. It was time to recheck everything; he walked back to his office and started work.
Among the emails he hadn’t read from the day before was the DNA report on Jane’s unborn child. It confirmed what he suspected – that Julian Sandham was the father. An hour later he had a mind map on a notepad with the name ‘Julian Sandham’ underlined and circled with a red highlighter. Underneath Jane’s name he’d written ‘£10k’ and given it the same highlighter colour as Sandham’s name.
He recalled Caren speculating in one of the briefings that she thought some of Jane’s diaries were missing. They weren’t with her belongings and her friends didn’t know where they were. He sat back and rubbed his face – it was getting late, his shoulders ached. Julian Sandham might just know something about them.
It was time for another visit to the Sandham home, Drake thought, before deciding to leave for the night.
Chapter 33
The following morning Drake was back at his desk before the rest of the team arrived. He had woken early thinking about Somerset de Northway, who appeared at every turn in the investigation. Even in the photograph pinned to the board he had a patronising air that matched the rich vowels and condescending manner. He should have guessed that middle-aged men might have fallen under de Northway’s spell and become involved with a paedophile ring. Maybe it was de Northway that took the photographs and the more he thought about the possibility the more it dominated his mind.
The Post-it notes straddled his desk like a short colourful chain of Christmas decorations. Each colour had a specific designation and he’d made certain that the edges of each note had been carefully placed under another, thereby achieving uniformity. It usually gave him order and restfulness. But now he plonked them one on top of another and put them on top of a cupboard in the far corner of his room.
He reached for the telephone handset and punched in the number of the forensics department. After a couple of rings he heard the familiar voice of the crime scene manager. ‘Foulds.’
‘Did you have any luck with the photographer?’
‘I spent an hour at the cottage. We both think you’re right. The photographer found the exact location where the photographs of Fairburn and Evans were taken.’
Another link in the thread towards Somerset de Northway.
A couple of other administrative telephone calls took Drake’s time, until eventually he could turn his attention seriously to Somerset de Northway. He reached down to a box file on the floor by his desk. He flipped off the cardboard cover, deciding that he’d go back to the beginning and look again at Somerset de Northway. Even his name made him sound like a villain from an Ealing comedy. De Northway was the only person of interest who was near the bridge where Ed Mostyn was killed. But it would have been odd for him not to have been there. Perhaps de Northway was counting on that as the perfect cover. But what stopped Drake developing this line of thought with any enthusiasm was the murder several days later of Jane Jones. Along with every other potential suspect, Somerset de Northway’s wife would confirm that he was safely tucked up in bed at the time she was killed. But it might mean that both Catherine and Somerset were involved.
He read the forensic report on their finances and knew it would take no more than a barrister of average competence to outline to a jury that Somerset de Northway was well and truly bankrupt.
From a drawer he pulled out a notepad and scribbled the name ‘Ed Mostyn’ and underneath it – ‘means, opportunity and motive’, as if reminding himself about the basics might help. It had to be Somerset de Northway, Drake concluded. So he turned his attention back to the box. He pulled out another file from the box marked ‘planning’. It amazed him how a planning application for a solar array could produce such a whirlwind of paperwork. Various shades of memoranda filled the file, from the highways department, the water board, Natural Resources Wales and internal departments of the council. A dozen different plans had been produced by the agents retained by Somerset de Northway. Drake opened each in turn over his desk, studying the demarcation between various plots. To satisfy himself he photocopied a larger scale drawing and then coloured in the area farmed by Jane’s family at Tyddyn Du and the cottage occupied by Ed Mostyn. It certainly made a larger unit and was probably far more profitable.
He read the various notes from officials. Mostly they were routine, referring to statutes or current regulations. A long memo from an official recorded their advice and guidance. Its terms had been shrouded in obfuscation, so he re-read the memo, convincing himself he had to understand it. It was in the pre-penultimate paragraph that Drake’s attention suddenly focused. There were references to a preliminary meeting, outline plans and sizeable development. A buzz of anticipation dominated his mind as he scoured the rest of the file for references to a meeting predating the memorandum he was reading. After a fruitless hal
f hour he gave up and then stared at the name of the planning officer.
It was another half an hour before he tracked down the right official.
‘Is that Gail Jones?’
‘Yes, who are you?’
‘My name is Detective Inspector Ian Drake, Wales Police Service. You’re the planning officer that dealt with the solar array for Crecrist Enterprises? There’s mention in your file of a preliminary meeting. I’d like to know what that was about?’
‘The application that we are dealing with now is much smaller than what we originally discussed.’
Drake’s chest tightened. He warmed to the prospect of Somerset de Northway sitting opposite him in the interview room.
‘Have you got plans from that discussion?’
‘Yes, somewhere.’
‘Email them to me as soon as you can.’
Drake sat staring at the plan on his desk, struggling to make the connections as he had throughout the case. Somerset de Northway wanted Tyddyn Du back, but why kill Jane Jones unless she’d blackmailed him?
Howick knocked on his door, interrupting his train of thought. ‘I thought you should know, boss. We traced one of the staff members of Daniel Jessop’s law firm. One of the secretaries is Somerset de Northway’s daughter, Judy. I didn’t recognise her at first because of her married name – Somerville.’
‘She might have removed Mostyn’s file.’ Drake sat back in his chair. ‘But the will has gone missing…’
Howick moved nearer his desk. ‘Why would she want to do that? No reason for de Northway to remove the will. I did some research, boss, and apparently the charity that was supposed to benefit could go to court about the will. Something about reconstructing a will from written records.’
Drake noticed an email in his mailbox and double-clicked on it, ignoring Howick. Then he opened the attachment and his pulse beat a little faster.
Chapter 34
Drake returned from a meeting with Price in which he had dissected every line of the memorandum Drake had prepared on the justification for arresting de Northway. It was a relief when the superintendent had given his consent. He watched as two civilians struggled to erect another board in the Incident Room. Once they’d finished he pinned up the plan that confirmed Tyddyn Du and Mostyn’s cottage had been included in the de Northway plan for an enormous solar panel farm.
‘He was going to make millions,’ Howick said.
‘It might give us a motive for de Northway killing Mostyn. But Jane Jones and Rhys Fairburn?’ Caren offered.
Drake had been thinking exactly the same thing.
‘She must have been blackmailing him,’ Winder said. ‘Suddenly she has lots of money. There’s no way she’s earned all that cash. We’ll probably find lots of cash withdrawals from his bank account.’
Drake turned to Howick and Winder. ‘Get started doing banking enquiries. We’re going to see Sandham on our way to see de Northway.’
The caravans and summer tourist traffic delayed their journey to the Sandham holiday home, which aggravated Drake’s impatience. He parked the Alfa next to an Audi 4x4 and a new BMW in the small driveway near the front door. They walked over to the house where Mrs Sandham opened the door, peering at Drake and then at Caren as though they were doorstep salesmen.
‘I need to speak to Julian,’ Drake said.
‘He’s sailing. And I don’t know when he’ll be back.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Call back in a couple of hours.’
She gave them a brief, insincere smile and edged the door closed.
Drake walked around the village, squinting against the summer sunshine. He watched as a group of youngsters, about Helen and Megan’s age, gathered for a sailing lesson. They wore wetsuits, a buoyancy aid and listened intently as the instructor began the course. Drake noted down the contact details for the sailing school into his mobile telephone, resolving to book a course for the girls before the end of the summer. Then they killed time, sitting in a café drinking Americanos and watching the tourists passing in the street.
After two hours they returned to the house to find Julian’s kit piled outside the garage door, with the sound of a shower inside. His mother waved them into the south-facing sitting room, its windows open and allowing a gentle summer breeze to drift inside with the last of the afternoon sunshine. Drake stood for a moment, enjoying the view over the beach and bay. A few minutes later Julian appeared, wearing expensive leather loafers – no socks – and a plain white T-shirt and Levis.
‘Mrs Sandham. I’d like to speak to Julian on his own.’
She pouted, before giving Julian a stern look, and left.
Drake was sitting at the edge of one of the leather sofas, nursing a coffee mug in both hands and hoping he could make the youngster feel at ease. ‘Julian, I don’t think you’ve told us everything you know about Jane.’
Julian darted a nervous glance at Caren.
‘We’ve had a chance to interview some of her friends and they’ve all mentioned that there were some bad things going on in the cottages with older men. Did Jane ever mention anything?’
Julian blinked, and then let out a long breath.
‘If there’s anything you know about what was going on, you owe it to Jane to tell us so that we can find her killer.’
Julian glanced over his shoulder towards the door.
Caren made her first contribution. ‘Is there something you don’t want your parents to know?’
‘They never knew her.’
Drake and Caren said nothing.
‘They would have liked her, I’m certain.’
Drake decided on a shock tactic. ‘Did she ever mention Somerset de Northway?’
Julian’s eyes opened wide.
‘Did you ever meet him? We know all about him, of course.’
Julian twisted and turned and then stood up. ‘There’s something you should see.’ He left the room, returning a few minutes later. From a rucksack he produced two small diaries, which he handed to Drake, and then a plastic bag, the contents of which he began to empty over the table. Wads of carefully wrapped twenty-pound notes cascaded over the top, some falling onto the floor.
‘It’s all in there,’ Julian said. ‘The dates of when she met him and the others. He gave her all of that. To keep her mouth shut.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’
‘He was here in the summer. I got really scared.’
Drake turned the papers through his fingers. He had decided that Sandham needed to know that he was the father of Jane’s child, but now he wasn’t so certain.
‘Julian. We’ve also had the result of the DNA analysis. The child was yours.’
The boy’s lips quivered and tears poured down his cheeks.
*
A red band of dying sunshine narrowed slowly over the horizon. By the time they reached Crecrist Hall it would be dark. Idly he speculated about de Northway’s evening routine. Pink gins in the drawing room? A three-course dinner served in the draughty, cold dining room and then brandy in the library. But the hospitality that the Wales Police Service could offer would be quite different.
‘How many men were actually involved?’ Caren was scanning the pages of Jane’s diary through the protective packaging of an evidence pouch.
‘Let’s hope we find something linked to de Northway,’ Drake said.
‘What if the killer is another member of the group?’
Drake slowed and indicated as he reached the junction for the turning off the A55 for Crecrist Hall. It was another few minutes before they turned into the hall’s long drive. Drake flicked his sidelights to dipped full beam. Clumps of turning leaves glistened along the tarmac and shrubs and bushes appeared as ghostly silhouettes. He slowed as he approached the house. It was in complete darkness and although Drake knew that the dining room was at the rear of the house overlooking a large paddock, the place felt empty.
Drake dragged on a fleece from the back seat of the car and stood looking at the imposing facade as
Caren joined him. De Northway’s Range Rover was parked by the front door, dirty wellingtons and waxed jackets thrown into the rear.
‘Nobody home?’ Caren said.
‘Let’s find out.’ Drake yanked the doorbell. It rang out. He pushed the handle gently. Nothing happened. So he rattled it and the sound of wood against metal echoed through the tiled hallway beyond. He turned to Caren. ‘You go and find the back door. I’ll go around the side.’
Caren walked off down the drive. Drake looked up at the first-floor windows. They were all closed, a couple heavily curtained. He strode over to the downstairs windows and peered in. A table and chairs were laid out in the middle – perhaps it was the breakfast room.
He moved around to the next window and as he peered in a brief blast of moonlight broke through the clouds and shone through into the library beyond the glass. Drake recalled sitting in the room previously, but it was empty now. Skirting around the gable, he found himself at the rear of the property. Looking up, he noticed a curtain flapping at a first-floor window, even though it looked closed, and his pulse beat a fraction faster.
He checked all the windows, a feeling of urgency invading his thoughts. Hoping that he might see Caren, he glanced over towards the far end of the property. Reaching an old-fashioned metal-framed French door, he turned the round porcelain doorknob and as the door opened a heightened anticipation filled his chest.
For a couple of seconds he allowed his eyes to acclimatise to the blackness inside the building. He tried to remember the layout of the house that he’d seen with de Northway and then he listened for any sound. Outside an owl hooted and Drake turned sharply to look through the windows into the paddock and then the trees beyond.
Deciding against exploring the ground floor, hoping that Caren would soon find the open French door, he headed for the staircase. It was a stone cantilever one and he could hear his footsteps reverberating through the stairwell. He stopped a couple of times and let the silence engulf him. He was halfway up the final flight when he heard movement ahead.
Against the Tide Page 24
